Mrs. Dallow said she'd get the decorations. They'd be easy enough to pick up, and her husband was too busy.
Claire Dallow wandered through Manhattan, eyes glued to her iPhone. She did not notice the Spring air and the budding of the park, or the variety of vagabond musicians playing for donations. Instead, she watched Facebook — frustrated there were no new "likes" today — and how it had suggested that she might be friends with Peter Wash.
Peter had been an old friend. Might not be now though. There was a time when she would have thought it impossible that they would fall out of contact, that there would be so much distance — digital and physical — keeping them apart. They thought they might be together forever once, but that was so very long ago. Neither one of them had taken steps to keep up in the years since, but he still flitted through her thoughts now and again. She knew his LinkedIn profile and his Twitter account. Facebook suggested friendship; she dismissed the notice.
She stepped into her favorite café, the one where she and Sally had spent so many nights, staying up until the owner kicked them out, often well after the doors closed. They listened to jazz and folk and none of the songs that were popular at the time. She had a brilliant spark about her, seductive and primal. It was so much that Claire was unable to resist the passion in the dark, the press of lips outside of the closed coffee shop and hidden away in the darker corners of the park. When Sally left after graduation, it burned in Claire's chest and caught in her throat. She felt like she lost part of herself. Now Sally was somewhere in the Hartford area, though that might as well be forever away.
She sat down in the coffee shop, trying to think of something witty she could post on Facebook. She'd take anything, even a meme. She'd never admit how vital likes were to her, but they had this satisfying quality: they validated her.
Claire, so stuck in her desire for virtual popularity, did not realize, did not recognize the man standing across the table from her.
"Is this seat taken?" the voice said. And she knew that voice.
"Peter?" she cried. She jumped up, her face alight, and embraced him. She asked, "How long has it been?" but she already knew the answer.
"Almost twenty years," he said. "How are you?"
"Good, good," she said. She placed the iPhone in her lap, Facebook still open. "I got married, had a daughter. She's 17 now, such a beautiful, clever girl." Claire smiled. Part of her wished that her daughter, Lizzie, had somehow managed to stay young just a little bit longer. She'd been acting strange lately, and Claire worried. Her husband, Dick, had proclaimed that it was only a phase, that their little girl was perfectly normal, but Claire still worried.
"And how are things with you?" she asked.
"Well, nothing so Full House as all that," he said. "Got out of a long-term relationship. It wasn't good. Just started picking up the pieces again." He'd been married, a misguided impulse, he could see that now. His ex never appreciated him the way that she should have, the way he deserved.
His current amour just finished her internship at Peter's firm. She worshiped the ground Peter walked on. She thought he was perfect. But at that moment, in that café, Peter wondered what it would have been like, wished that Claire had said yes.
Claire knew all of this but never mentioned it. She had watched his profile switch from "dating," to "married," to "complicated." Part of her wondered if maybe she had missed something in denying this man. She chose stability, in the end.
"I'm having a party tonight," she said. Her latte finished, she needed to keep moving if she wanted to be ready. "We're 25 Central Park West. Floor 32. Will I see you there?"
"Sure, I'll try," he said, though he wasn't sure if he meant it.
--------------------
That night Peter talked with unimportant people: the director of some charity or supporters of some politician. He found the entire experience so utterly disingenuous, so completely fake. "Claire just stands there," he thought, "moving about like a ping-pong ball, saying hellos and goodbyes. There's nothing real about it."
Why wasn't Claire paying attention to him? She'd not seen him in twenty years, and she ignores him for what? Mediocre appetizers with the Deputy-Mayor's wife? There were so many real things to think about, real things to discuss. She was merely parroting "Hello... Goodbye."
Claire, of course, was trying to be a good host. She was trying not to be bothered by one of her guest's revelations: one of the local homeless, a veteran, had died on her front stoop earlier in the day. She was trying not to think about his face, the face of an addict, the face of an overdose. Whoever that man was, he was never going to be here again, and at least he's freed from pain. But then, perhaps he was freer than she.
She had married a good man, but was it an exciting marriage? Should she have tried for more? What if things had happened differently? And now she was here, trying to satisfy everyone at this party. How is she freer than the man beholden to some chemical master? Maybe his life was more honest, the more genuine one.
She was so wrapped in her fluttering thoughts and self-doubt that she didn't recognize Sally. Claire didn't see her until she was wrapped in the embrace of remembered friendship. Claire's eyes lit up as she looked wide-eyed at this long absent friend. Claire left her post as the greeter and even spent a half a minute catching up.
Sally had seen the event on Facebook, and since she was in the city, she thought she would stop by. "Sorry I didn't RSVP, but I thought you'd like the surprise."
Sally's brilliance had dimmed over the years. She'd spent too much time as a soccer mom, the mother of three boys. She said she had a doting husband, but she came alone. There was still a light in her, one that teased the yearning Claire felt, but soon their moment was over. Sally went and mingled while Claire continued to play hostess.
"It's been forever," Sally said. And Peter smiled. They talked of old times, of days when they were young. They remembered each other because of Claire. She and her warm attentions for both of them made them friends, transitively, if nothing else.
The clock reached midnight, Sally sighed. "I suppose that it's about time to leave." She stood and looked over the apartment. She and Claire never did have a chance to talk, but Sally could tell that Claire had done well for herself, married someone who could take care of her. Maybe some day they could sit and reminisce, but tonight it was late.
"Hold on," said Peter, "I'm coming, too."
